From Flatmates to Friends
by Azolean
Summary: It's a crash course in life/The best you can do is get by...So what is it keeps us coming back for more?/I'll hold a light for you to see...Toad the Wet Sprocket: All Things in Time
1. Prologue

_**A/N: **Okay, we've all wanted to fill in some of those gaps in the early H/W relationship. And, yes, I've read dozens of them, myself. But this one was demanding to be written. So, if you're tired of reading these kinds of things and want to move on to something else, I will totally understand. _

_My primary source of auditory inspiration is a group called **Toad the Wet Sprocket.** I haven't heard them in years and it was purest accident I stumbled upon them this time. However, some of the sound and lyrics struck me as appropriate to the situation and my frame of mind. I'm adding them just for fun. I agonized over them for way too long. If they really don't fit, please tell me. There was no slash intended. _

_In the course of my research, I have read several arguments that place Watson and Holmes moving in together at 221B Baker Street anywhere from January to July of 1881. And even some in favor of STUD_ _not taking place until as late as March of 1884. All of these present valid arguments that I can appreciate. However, for the purposes of this story, they met in January of 1881 and STUD took place in March of that same year._

* * *

_I often feel_

_Like the prodigal son_

_Take all I need_

_Giving back none_

_Our beauty shows_

_In such different ways_

_You're like the light behind the fog_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Brother**_

* * *

**Prologue**

Watson shuffled in through the front door leaving a wet trail as he entered. The chilly, wet weather had him aching terribly as he struggled to shrug out of his coat. Wrapped in his miserable thoughts, he longed for his fireside chair in the sitting room and a cup of tea. He was not entirely surprised to find the sitting room door closed and muffled voices filtering through from the other side. Holmes had another client. Stifling his disappointment, he kept a firm grip on his cane as he changed direction to struggle limpingly up the next flight of stairs to his bedroom.

In an attempt to put a better light on his day, Watson struggled to contort himself until he was able to divest himself of his soggy clothing and into something warm and dry. In the mirror he caught sight of the twisted mass of scar tissue that had once been his shoulder. He'd lost count of the days he'd spent staring at it, trying to convince himself it wasn't as bad as it seemed. He knew the resilience of the human body. His standing here now was proof of that much. And, yet, it still mocked him. Frowning darkly, he turned away from the mirror and resumed dressing. Only when that hideous mess was covered did he at last turn back to the mirror to compose himself.

For a moment he toyed with the idea of going down and seeing what kind of case Holmes had picked up today. Holmes had not turned away his company in the presence of a client since before the events of the past year that introduced him to Holmes' profession as the only private consulting detective in the world. As if in response to his thoughts, his similarly war-wounded leg flared pain briefly at the idea of having to traverse the stairs once more. In this damp, cool weather the combined pain of both his injuries had him feeling like a miserable wretch indeed.

After the events of the day, Watson felt only the more wretched. He would be of no use to Holmes even in his limited capacity as sounding board in his current frame of mind, and he well knew it. Feeling the need to purge himself of these thoughts, he turned to the one comfort that had never abandoned him. Shuffling carefully across the room and back again, he retrieved his latest little brown journal and a pen. Settling himself more comfortably on the bed, he stared down at the blank page before him.

The words would not come.

He scribbled the date and time.

Only one word was on his mind now. It was a word he had heard enough times that it should not surprise him anymore. Part of him still did not want to accept it. He continued to stare at the blank page, feeling as if the journal itself were staring back at him mockingly. A single drop of ink fell from the tip of his forgotten pen to land like a teardrop. For the first time in his life, Watson composed a journal entry that consisted of a single sentence.

_ License to practice surgical procedures: Denied_

The bitterness he had kept at bay for so long rose up at these words. He waited only long enough for the ink to dry. As he began to close the journal to put it aside, his shoulder gave a sudden stab of pain as if mocking him further. In a fit of temper, he flung the journal across the room with his good arm. The little thump it made as it bounced off the wall to land on the floor did not seem like enough. For one, brief moment, he wanted to tear the room around him apart. He wanted to scream. He wanted to weep. He wanted...

Burying his face in his hands and forcing himself to breathe deeply, Watson forced back the swirling tide emotions that left him trembling. Only when he felt he had regained control of himself, did he finally shift himself back to his feet. Considering the pain of having to shuffle back across the room to retrieve the journal fitting punishment for his little outburst, he carefully placed it once more on his desk. Having no idea how long it would be before Holmes would be through with his client, Watson took up a book and decided to forget himself and his miserable excuse for an existence for a few hours.

~o~o~o~

In the now open doorway of the sitting room, Holmes glanced up curiously as he heard the little thump. He frowned as he heard Watson shuffling slowly across his bedroom. He had heard the doctor come in, and was somewhat surprised that the man had not joined them in the sitting room. Watson had been fairly bouncing with anticipation this morning as he had gathered his things and left. Though he had said nothing to Holmes of his activities for the day, there was only one thing other than a case that would have brought such a light to the man's expression.

Holmes could easily deduce the results for himself.

Somewhat irritated at his flatmate's ill-timed decline in mood, Holmes contemplated the door at the top of the stairs. Briefly Holmes wondered how many times the stubborn fool would put himself through this before he would accept the obvious? He had seen it before, though. Some people would continue to live in denial until the truth destroyed them. He wondered if that would be the case for this strangely complex man he had come to know over the course of the last year.

Given the weather, Watson was likely feeling the effects of his day spent in the cold, damp weather. Now that his client had left, he considered the idea of sharing this rather exciting bit of news on his newest case. The idea that Watson would appreciate the soothing warmth of the fire had nothing to do with it, of course. As he continued to wait for a few seconds to see if Watson would come down for some tea and the heat of the fire, he quickly changed his mind. Obviously his flatmate's mood was as foul as the weather. Watson had a habit of containing his less pleasant turns within the confines of his bedroom; for which Holmes was extremely grateful, as he had enough to deal with in his own mind.

Turning back toward his chair and closing the sitting room door behind himself, Holmes glanced at the chair across from his own beside the fireplace and was somewhat surprised to realized he was disappointed. With the introduction of a new, intriguing case he found he was actually _wanting _Watson's presence to share his excitement. His flatmate rarely understood his line of thinking or the little details that made such conclusions all the more exciting to him, but he seemed genuinely appreciative of the genius behind those logical deductions once they were explained.

Stuffing his pipe, Holmes flopped into his chair. He wasn't entirely sure when it was the doctor had crossed from temporary flatmate to part-time partner in his budding career. But as it seemed the doctor was no longer a surgeon and had little else to do with his life, Holmes felt the introduction of his work into the man's life might at least provide some entertainment.

He had not been wrong.

Hearing more restless shuffling upstairs, Holmes snorted in disgust. If his flatmate had decided to spend the day feeling sorry for himself, then let him have at it. As he had a new case to occupy his time, he really shouldn't be wasting time contemplating a man's moods unless it had something to do with the case itself. Putting all thoughts of Watson aside, he focused on the ring he now held in his hands.

_ Such a simple thing to mean so very much to a single person. But is it worth murder? _Holmes wondered.


	2. Chapter One

_Open up and let me in _

_I was lucky to live, don't need to win_

_Forgave myself and that's a sin_

_It's not enough you'd even know it_

_You did right to call my bluff_

_'Cause I won't say when I've had enough_

_And I worked so hard to need this stuff_

_And you tried so long to just ignore it_

_Won't you come down where I am_

_Words are hidden, understand_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Come Down**_

* * *

**Chapter One**

Through the open sitting room door, Watson could hear the motherly tirade with which Mrs. Hudson was currently gracing Holmes. Carefully negotiating the stairs with his cane, he hoped Holmes would be ready to provide some desperately needed distraction this morning with his current case. He stifled a grin behind a yawn as he reached the sitting room door. He had heard for himself Holmes' constant shuffling the night before throughout the sitting room and could easily picture what kind of state it was in at this point. Not surprisingly, the weather and his dark thoughts had kept him up for most of the night himself. Having skipped coming down for dinner the night before, his stomach had less than politely informed him shortly after sunrise that breakfast was not an option, but a requirement.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," Watson called cheerfully, as she had failed to notice his presence.

Her hands still on her hips, she turned her glaring dark eyes to her other, less troublesome tenant. Though she knew it wasn't fair to him, her mood upon seeing the state of the sitting room had left her in no frame of mind for pleasantries. Mrs. Hudson was about to give the doctor a piece of her mind when she caught sight of the dark rings under the poor man's eyes and hesitated. Eyeing him more closely, her anger dropped completely in the face of her concern.

"Good morning, Doctor. Are you feeling quite well?"

Watson smiled widely. "It is nothing that some of your excellent food and coffee won't cure, as always."

Though her cheeks flushed with something other than anger this time, she couldn't prevent a humph in response. "Flatterer. Well, at least _someone _around here appreciates my cooking," she tossed over her shoulder at Holmes.

Still smiling widely, Watson stepped aside to let her pass through the door. "It's not mere flattery when it's the truth."

Patting him on the arm warmly as she passed, Mrs. Hudson headed back down toward the kitchen. Watson resumed his careful trek around the mess of papers and other detrius of the night's work. Hanging his cane on the back of the chair at the breakfast table, he gratefully eased his aching leg forward until he felt the muscles begin to relax once more. Holmes, still pacing the sitting room puffing away on his pipe excitedly, threw a dark glare at his flatmate that Watson only returned with an amused, somewhat cocky expression. This was by no means the first time Watson had so very easily soothed their landlady's ruffled feathers.

It was a source of great amusement between them that for all of Holmes' charm when it came to treating his clients, Watson still possessed the greater talent in dealing with Mrs. Hudson. Of course, it probably helped that she had a soft spot for the poor veteran. They had established this routine in their earliest days during the social dance of getting to know one another's strengths and weaknesses. Eyeing Watson now through the haze of smoke that filled the sitting room, Holmes was not fooled. That too-cheerful attitude at this time of the morning meant the man had likely been up all night and really was in no mood for conflict. Watson may be a lot of things, but a cheerful morning person he was not.

Holmes kept his peace until Watson had poured himself a cup of coffee and was sipping it tentatively while eyeing the mess all around him with a frown. By now he was well used to the routine, but that didn't mean he particularly cared for this part of their partnership. He would be all day in cleaning up this mess. He watched his flatmate's restless pacing back and forth through the only cleared section of the sitting room floor for several minutes as he tried to give his sluggish mind time to assemble itself into something approaching orderly thought. One of the things he appreciated the most about his rather eccentric flatmate, was the fact that he learned quickly that Watson was not the best morning companion until after his first cup of coffee.

Almost as if he had been waiting for Watson to pour his second cup, Holmes plopped himself down in the table's other chair. Seeing the excitement in those gray eyes, Watson knew dragging this out would only be a sort of torment to the man. Giving in, he sighed silently to himself, resigned to forgoing the usual first cup in peace.

"New case?" he asked the obvious.

All but bouncing in his seat, Holmes quickly filled him in on the details of the case involving a ring and its missing partner. The possessor of this ring had been seeking its mate for some time. It was the kind of story of broken family and love that appealed to Watson's romantic nature. The tragic tale of a family torn apart by greed and secrets had him enthralled. He had almost forgotten his cup of coffee and even breakfast by the time Mrs. Hudson reappeared bearing a breakfast tray. Holmes held off the rest of his story until Watson had begun to dig into his eggs with relish that spoke of the previous day's lack of appetite.

Feeling much more himself, Watson finished his breakfast as Holmes concluded the tale of how this gentleman had at last found his cousin in possession of the ring right here in London. Only days later she had been murdered and the other ring she had been wearing was stolen. The man was convinced this had something to do with one of the family's darker secrets. He wanted the murderer brought to justice and the whole ugly affair set behind him forever.

Taking their conversation over to the fire, Holmes outlined all he had learned through his night of research. Watson sighed with thinly concealed relief as the warmth of the fire began to seep into the aching leg and shoulder. The weather outside was still such that he did not feel like traversing the streets of London without a very good reason.

"So you already suspect someone?" Watson asked, casually.

"Of course, I've already drawn my conclusions. A couple of little inquiries in the right areas should prove my hypothesis correct," Holmes tossed back flippantly, relighting his pipe. "If you would care to join me, this should prove a most interesting and enlightening afternoon."

Concealing a sigh of disappointment, Watson nodded eagerly. He really did not relish the idea of an afternoon spent in the chilly rain, but there were few things he enjoyed more than watching his flatmate work. And, it was a source of no little pride to him that on rare occasions he could even prove of some use to Holmes in his investigations. He hoped it would be enough of a distraction for him today to put the events of the day before behind him. It still nagged at the back of his mind, stirring dark shadows he still did not feel like confronting. There would be time enough for that later in the days to come.

"Are you listening, Watson?" Holmes asked with some irritation, his dark brows furrowing.

Watson felt his cheeks color slightly. He hadn't realized he had let his thoughts drift so far. "I'm sorry, Holmes. I was...distracted."

Holmes waved impatiently as he rose from his chair to resume the perusal of some nearby papers. "Nevermind that, for now," he said vaguely, tossing more papers aside and rising from his chair.

Watson sensed this statement was directed more toward the thoughts that had been on his mind only moments before rather than the case discussion. Holmes had taught him time and again that there was nothing he could hide from the man. To Holmes he was an open book. His flush grew only deeper as he realized with some guilt he had been deliberately attempting to withhold the information from his flatmate. It really wasn't fair to Holmes, and they would have to discuss the situation sooner or later. But, for now, Holmes seemed wrapped up enough in his case that he hoped to put it off for a little while longer. The situation wasn't serious, yet. But it would be before too much longer. Checking another sigh, he attempted to focus his mind on the tasks that lay before them today.

~o~o~o~

Shivering and miserable, Watson limped along behind Holmes as they headed once more back in the direction of Baker Street. Soaked to the skin at this point, he had given up trying to keep pace with Holmes as his leg and shoulder cursed him painfully for daring to even consider the idea of trying to keep up with the detective. Their afternoon had not been the most productive. Holmes' theories and attempts to test those theories had left them all but empty-handed. As evening was swiftly approaching, Holmes now strode several paces ahead growling darkly to himself and muttering imprecations regarding the bungling fools with which he seemed to surround himself.

For his own part in the day's work, Watson had been left feeling worse than useless. At one point Holmes had set him to providing a distraction in a jewelry store while he slipped behind the counter for some information regarding recent receipts. The combination of unaccustomed exercise and foul weather had left him a little clumsy and off balance. The nearly invisible puddle of water on the already slick floor had not helped matters. The resultant crash of a display of watches had definitely provided a distraction for the shopkeeper, but not one that had served their purposes. As a matter of fact, it had earned them a swift removal from the premises.

Now, as they turned their feet toward home they were left walking as not a single cab could be found that was not already occupied. Wrapped up in his own thoughts, Holmes failed to notice Watson falling farther and farther behind until he was nearly half a block ahead of the limping man. Muttering darkly, he waited impatiently until the slower man could catch up. Watson had paled considerably and looked downright miserable. Given how Holmes' day had already progressed, this came as no surprise to him. Nor was he feeling particularly compassionate after his flatmate's failed attempts at usefulness. He only waited for the man to catch up so he could continue his snarling tirade.

Watson listened with less than half an ear. Right now it was all he could do to keep his mind focused on returning to the warmth and comfort of their rooms. A fresh, dry change of clothes and a seat beside the fire sounded divine. But he doubted it would do much to improve his mood. He let Holmes' angry words wash over him and be swept away in the steady patter of the rain. Finally, after what seemed like hours, they reached their front door. Watson waited for Holmes to fumble his way through unlocking the door with his cold hands. Even as they were shedding themselves of their coats, Mrs. Hudson stalked in fuming over the puddles of water they left in their wake. By this point Watson himself wasn't in any mood to deal with her. He muttered an insincere apology and quietly began his slow trek up the stairs towards his own bedroom.

By the time he had managed to change into something that wasn't dripping all over the floor, he wasn't entirely sure he was in any condition to negotiate the trek back down the stairs. Still shivering, though, he knew he would find no relief until he had at least warmed himself by the fire for a time. The very idea of a hot cup of tea was enough to motivate him into reaching for his cane once more. His left leg trembled threatening to collapse as he finally reached the landing and took the final few steps toward the sitting room door. Forcing his leg to comply, he opened the sitting room door to find it in surprisingly tidy condition. Of course, that meant Holmes was now tearing it apart to undo Mrs. Hudson's work.

"Holmes?" Watson queried gently, casually leaning on the door frame, hoping to conceal his trembling leg before it betrayed him completely.

"What?" Holmes snapped, not bothering to look up.

"Is there something I can help you locate? Or would you prefer to continue testing Mrs. Hudson's patience?"

Glaring balefully, Holmes threw down the stack of papers he had been perusing to take up his stack of posts and telegrams. "We will be having a guest shortly."

Nodding, Watson carefully made his way over to the fire, not bothering to leave his cane beside the door as he knew he would likely be needing it in his current condition. He waited patiently for Holmes to fill him in as he seated himself. Moments later Mrs. Hudson arrived with a tray of tea that had him cursing his leg silently. Thanking her, he eyed the tray on the table longingly. Resigning himself to the situation, he heaved himself out of his chair shuffling impatiently across the room. Once there, he sat himself down long enough to prepare a cup of tea. Now settled, but further away, he chose the tea over the fire. Besides, shuffling back across the room just meant having to dance around Holmes who was busy pacing the sitting room engrossed in whatever it was he was reading. He had paid about as much attention to Watson's dodging in the first trek across the room as he would the furniture. A second such attempt would likely end in an encounter that could be both painful and embarrassing.

For a moment Watson watched his flatmate's agitated pacing as he sipped some of Mrs. Hudson's finest tea. He felt the warming comfort of it soothing his rather taut nerves as he stretched out his rebellious leg. Relaxing into something approaching contentment, he waited for Holmes to either continue his tirade or at least enlighten him as to who this visitor was supposed to be, and when they would arrive.

This latter question was answered only moments later when the ringing of the doorbell announced the arrival of this visitor. Holmes excitedly shoved all of his papers out of the way to make room for the man to be seated on the settee when Mrs. Hudson had shown him up. Rather than changing locations, Watson simply scooted his chair closer for the discussion. Something in the man's demeanor spoke of tension that had once again set his nerves on edge. Holmes, however, was grinning from ear to ear with a mischievousness that had Watson more than a little curious.

"Firstly, I wanted to thank you for your prompt response, Mr. Blessington," Holmes started, as he seated himself. "There were a few questions I would like to ask you in regards to a Mrs. Rachel Edwards."

The man instantly tensed up. "I'm afraid you must have me mistaken. I am not familiar with such a lady."

Holmes smiled knowingly. Producing a ring from his pocket, he held it up with a flourish. "I believe this little piece should also be familiar to you, Mr. Blessington."

The man scowled darkly and refused to answer as he sat back into the settee as if wanting to distance himself from the object. A moment later Watson had to scramble to catch the ring as Holmes flipped it to him for his own inspection. "Let us not waste our time here, sir. We both know you are acquainted with Mrs. Edwards, as I have here the ring you were concealing in your jacket pocket—"

Even as Holmes spoke, he held up the twin of the ring Watson now held. Before he had a chance to finish this statement, however, the man reacted with a violence that startled both of them. He launched himself from the settee grabbing at Holmes' upraised hand. Watson shoved the ring into his pocket as he swiftly rose to his feet. Holmes, though obviously not expecting this sudden and violent reaction, had managed to flip himself backward out of the chair using the man's chest as a kicking point. The larger man hesitated only long enough to realize Holmes was out of his reach before grabbing up the chair itself.

Watson hefted his cane in both hands, prepared to distract the man at least long enough for Holmes to escape the narrow corner between desks where he was trapped. The man swung the chair with a roar sending it flying out through the sitting room windows as Holmes managed to duck between the man's legs. Seeing an opportunity, Watson stepped forward to swing his cane viciously at the man's back. Unfortunately, his already overused leg chose that moment to betray him. Already off balance, Watson practically fell atop the man. Before he had a chance to recover, he found himself flying bodily back in the direction from which he came.

The impact with the dining table and chairs left him stunned for a moment. Holmes, only just managing to recover himself on the far side of the room was not able to prevent the man from reaching the sitting room door. In a berserk rage, the man pounded down the stairs toward the foyer, Holmes just behind him. Ignoring the cries of protest from various areas of his body, Watson gripped his cane and disentangled himself from the mess of overturned furniture.

Mrs. Hudson's scream greeted him as he began his descent. Looking up, he found Mrs. Hudson being held up against Mr. Blessington with a burly arm around her throat. Holmes was facing them with his back to Watson as if trying to find a way to attack that would not further endanger their landlady. Like a coiled serpent waiting to strike, he shifted from foot to foot. The man snarled and raged curses at Holmes as he backed up toward the door. Using his free hand, he turned the knob behind him.

"Let her go," Holmes growled threateningly.

With a malevolent grin, the man carefully opened the door. Watson was helpless to do anything as he carefully tried to force his limbs to comply while he negotiated the stairs. Mrs. Hudson let out a terrifying scream as the man shifted his grip to her waist and then threw her bodily at Holmes. Distracted by these goings on, Watson failed to notice the warning signs as his leg again betrayed him folding beneath him on the last few stairs. Even as Holmes caught Mrs. Hudson, Watson impacted him from behind. All three of them went down in a tangled heap at the bottom of the stairs as Mr. Blessington escaped into the night.

Ignoring his own pain, Watson attempted to lift himself off of Holmes when he was shoved away roughly. His already aching shoulder stabbed mercilessly as it impacted the stair behind him. Of course, Holmes was no less gentle with the nearly hysterical Mrs. Hudson. Watson shifted over to her taking her into his arms in an attempt to soothe her and assess any injuries. The trembling woman sobbed loudly into his throbbing shoulder while Holmes blistered the air just outside their door for a moment at the loss of his suspect.

"Are you hurt?" Watson finally asked more firmly, when Mrs. Hudson refused to answer.

The trembling woman hesitated only long enough to take in his question and Holmes snarling voice. A second later Watson found himself again being shoved away to land on his back on the foyer floor as Mrs. Hudson jumped to her feet screaming.

"I've had enough! Get out! Both of you! Get out of my house!"

As if only now realizing the danger, Holmes raised his hands placatingly toward the now irate woman. This, at least, bought enough time for Watson to use a combination of his cane and the stairs to regain his feet.

"Mrs. Hudson—"

"No! No more from you!" Mrs. Hudson cut him off with a shove toward the door. "You destroy my house and let these—these—"

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm terribly sorry. It wasn't his fault," Watson attempted to cut in.

"Get _out!"_

Somewhat dazed and more than a little surprised at this sudden turn of events, Holmes and Watson found themselves standing outside the door as Mrs. Hudson slammed it in their faces and locked it with a resounding click.


	3. Chapter Two

_It's hard to rely on my good intentions_

_When my head's full of things that I can't mention_

_Seems I usually get things right_

_But I can't understand what I did last night_

_It's hard to rely on my own good senses_

_When I miss so much that requires attention_

_Have to laugh at myself sometimes_

_And I can see that I'm not blind_

_There's little relief_

_Give us reprieve_

_For all the things I've left behind_

_I'm positive that I'm not blind_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Good Intentions**_

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Dazed and somewhat in shock, Watson followed along beside Holmes as they slowly started off in the direction of Scotland Yard. He now ached in too many places to count, so didn't even bother trying. None of them were serious, so could await some tending until they had at least had time to find rooms for the night. Holmes was fuming in a silent fury beside him. Knowing better than to intrude upon those thoughts, Watson kept his peace.

_At least it's not raining._

Watson snickered at this though.

"I fail to see what is so amusing," Holmes growled.

Maybe it was the overdose of adrenaline in his system. Maybe it was just nerves stretched too tautly for too long. Maybe it was the fact that trouble never seemed to happen to him a single incident at a time. Whatever it was, Watson found himself leaning against the wall of the building moments later holding his aching ribs as he laughed.

"This is _your _fault, you know," Holmes said angrily, his fists clenched tightly at his sides as if wishing to have somewhere better to plant them. "I'm happy you're so—"

_"My _fault?" Watson asked, losing some of his humor. _"I'm_ not the one that invited a killer over for tea this evening."

"But you couldn't even manage to stop him from escaping!" Holmes snapped. "You were right there! You—"

"You're the one that instigated—"

"You could have—"

"I was trying to keep him from—"

"Your uselessness astounds even me!"

Whatever else Watson was about to say ended right there. Closing his mouth with a click, he glared daggers at Holmes, his face flushed with fury. He ground his teeth in an effort not to retaliate. No doubt, there was more coming.

"You're a half-crippled veteran that can't practice the profession for which you were trained! You can't even perform the most simple tasks without bungling them miserably! And your constant meddling into my affairs is unseemly! If I wanted_ that_ kind of assistance, I'd call on those idiots at the Yard!"

Holmes' chest heaved as he attempted to reign in his temper. By this point Watson had gone pale to his lips. His glare had transformed into something so cold Holmes found himself wanting to step back. He'd yet to see Watson's temper, though he knew the man possessed one. However, at this point he was fairly itching for something to swing at and almost welcomed the exchange.

"Are you quite finished, Mr. Holmes?"

Taken aback by this flat, icy tone rigid with control, Holmes practically deflated. His anger evaporated like so much London fog in the morning sun, he stood staring blankly for a moment before nodding.

"Good evening, then," Watson grated out as politely as he could manage.

Holmes could only stare mutely in absolute bewilderment as Watson turned to shuffle limpingly in the opposite direction they had been heading. Disgusted with the night's events, he turned to resume his previously interrupted course toward Scotland Yard.

~o~o~o~

For nearly two blocks, it was all Watson could do to keep from turning around and taking a swing at Holmes. By this time his traitorous thoughts had turned these words over and over in his mind. He knew what he was. He knew all too well what his limits were now. He just had not realized what sort of impact it was having on his flatmate. They had yet to discuss the impending financial situation. And now it was a moot point, as they would both be looking for new lodgings elsewhere come morning.

Putting aside his self-loathing, Watson considered where he was to go now. For tonight, he would at least need a safe place to sleep. He had no doubts his lack of sleep the night before combined with the day's events had been at least partially to blame for his current state of affairs. Reaching into his pockets, he attempted to locate his wallet certain he still had that on his person, at least. A moment later his fingers encountered the ring he had all but forgotten.

Staring at the object in his hands, he cursed silently. Holmes was on his way to Scotland Yard at that very moment. He would need both rings as evidence if he was going to convince the inspectors there was a case against Mr. Blessington. Forcefully shoving the ring back into his pocket, he turned himself back in the direction he had known Holmes to be headed. The idea of leaving Holmes to hunt him down for it never even crossed his mind.

Only a couple of blocks from where he had left Holmes but still quite a ways from Scotland Yard, he was surprised to hear the voice of the very man he was looking for coming from a darkened alley.

"As you can see, I have nothing to give you gentlemen," Holmes was stating calmly, but forcefully. "If you will allow me to move along, we can forget this incident altogether."

"You see, it's just not that easy," another voice spoke up in amusement. "Toffs don't walk around this time of night without—"

"I'll tell you again," Holmes cut in warningly, "I have been evicted and am now on my way to Scotland Yard. My wallet is currently in my former landlady's possession."

Watson peeked carefully around the edge of the building. His heart sank as he found Holmes facing off alone against five ruffians. One was almost as large as Mr. Blessington. A second was no larger than Watson had been in the years before his military service, and the other three looked like little more than youths. Watson sized them up swiftly, his mind already calculating the odds. Even had Holmes been in possession of one of his weighted walking sticks, he likely would not have been able to take all five at once.

Their pack leader stepped forward menacingly, saying something Watson had already disregarded as important as his mind fell into a familiar mode of readiness he had not felt in some time.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he addressed, stepping into the alley. "I believe Mr. Holmes said he had no intention of complying with your demands. If you will kindly let us be on our way to Scotland Yard, he is willing to forget this, as am I."

"Looky what we got here, another toff," the brutish man piped up almost happily.

Watson nodded, ignoring Holmes' stunned expression. "Perhaps, but I doubt you'll find me an easy mark," he warned them, hefting his cane as he felt the familiar calm that typically fell on him before action. "I will warn you, that I am familiar with the rules of engagement regarding combat; but experience has taught me far more."

Seeing them moving into attack positions, the three younger seemed to like the idea of picking on the crippled man they now saw before them. Smiling malevolently, Watson burst into action even as the other two turned their attention on Holmes. With the amount of abuse his body had already sustained in the last day, Watson knew he was going to be hard pressed even with these three untrained pups. Balancing most of his weight on his good leg, he used the cane and game shoulder as counterweight. Nonetheless, he swept through them viciously swinging his cane in all directions only managing to avoid the worst of their blows as they punched and kicked at him. With two on the ground, he glanced up to find Holmes dancing around the other two larger men as if engaged in nothing more sinister than fisticuffs.

Watson turned his attention back toward this last opponent who had seen the others fall so easily and grown wary. They sized each other up as Watson shifted only enough to give the appearance of movement while keeping the weight off his already trembling leg. Patiently he watched, looking for an opening. However, with his lack of training, the younger man failed to realize Watson was backing them ever so slowly closer and closer towards Holmes. Wanting to put his back to an ally as he had been trained, Watson drew the boy closer hoping for an opening. In moments, his patience was rewarded as he spotted an opening. He winced at the resounding crack and resultant scream as the weighted end of his cane impacted the young man's arm.

Almost at the same time, he sensed more than heard Holmes' step falter as he slipped in the muck lining the floor of the alley. His brief glance turned into a full spin as he watched Holmes fall to one knee with the largest of the men raising a knife. Not wasting time on thought, Watson reacted instinctively. Lowering his right shoulder, he slammed into the man's ribcage with crushing force as he dove over Holmes' kneeling form. Even as they impacted the wall behind the brute, he felt the knife stabbing into the flesh of his back with explosive agony as it caught on bone. He only barely managed to keep from crying out as the force of the blow forced him to his knees. He choked on a gasp as the knife was jerked painfully back upward. Wasting no time, he sent his cane upward behind it. Hearing the knife skittering somewhere off into the darkness, he attempted to regain his balance and his feet only to be kicked viciously in the ribs and sent sprawling. His cane went one direction as he fell the other.

Holmes thrust himself upward fist-first at his remaining opponent landing a solid right to the man's midsection that had him doubled over gasping for air. In seconds, he landed several successive blows that felled him. The man rolled away from Holmes before regaining his feet and joining his companions in a flight from alley. Turning back around, he found Watson lying on the ground as a booted foot swung toward his midsection. Holmes winced in sympathy as Watson shifted several inches attempting to absorb the impact and grapple with the man's ankle. Having never seen this side of his flatmate before, he was rather astounded as Watson gripped, twisted, and kicked simultaneously in a maneuver that left the man staggering backward before turning to flee the alley himself.

For one, brief moment, Holmes suddenly understood how it was such a wreck of a man had managed to survive the bloody and horrifying combat all around him. Obviously there had been more to his youth than just medical training. However, these thoughts were quickly swept away as he watched Watson curl in on himself lying in the filth and mud of the alley. Staggering a little bit as he felt the sudden rush of adrenaline wearing on him, Holmes fell to his knees beside the gasping figure.

Instantly Watson's head shot up. An expression twisted with rage crossed his features for a moment before relaxing into relief at spying his flatmate. Before Holmes had a chance to process this, it morphed again into concern as Watson reached out taking him by the arm.

"Are you hurt?"

It took Holmes' dazed mind a moment to process this sudden concern as his mind began to catch up to the events of the last five minutes or so. "No," he assured quickly.

Again Watson sagged with relief. "Good..." he whispered wearily.

Holmes watched as the doctor rallied his strength and pushed upward with his good arm. It was as if the man's legs refused to obey when he attempted to struggle to get his good one underneath him. Knowing how badly the man's war wounds hampered his ability to regain his feet unaided even after all this time, Holmes took him by the arm to assist. A moment later he sat back in surprise when Watson roughly tugged his arm way, flatly refusing any assistance. Instead, he crawled a couple of feet toward the wall taking his cane with him.

His mind reeling, Holmes stared blankly for a moment at the struggling doctor feeling the first twinges of admiration and irritation. The stubborn man refused assistance, but had not hesitated in joining the fray that had left him in such battered condition.

"Why did you—"

As if having anticipated the question, Watson used his free hand to hold out the ring that had been in his pocket. Staring in wonder, Holmes carefully took the ring and pocketed it himself. His swirling, confused thoughts refused to reconcile this battered, combat-experienced man with the quiet, polite flatmate he had come to know. As Watson pushed away from the wall, he stumbled slightly when his leg threatened yet again to not support him. Holmes reached out reflexively to take him by the elbow, only then noticing that nearly the entire right side of his back was soaked with blood.

"Watson!"

"I know!" he growled, yanking his arm away from Holmes yet again.

His back rigid, Watson forced his legs to comply as he used the other hand to support himself on the wall. Carefully he began to limp toward the mouth of the alley back in the direction of the open street. His mind already turned in the direction of where he would be able to seek medical help at this time of the evening.

"We have to get you to a hospital," Holmes said, waving off his flatmate's prideful attempts to maneuver unaided out of the alley.

"No hospital."

"You've been stabbed! We'll—"

"I said, no hospital. It's shallow. I will go see Dr. Cummings," he said through gritted teeth, stumbling yet again.

"I'll go get a cab."

Huffing angrily at the stubborn man forcing himself to make his way out of the alley, he turned to do just as he'd said, ignoring the angry cries behind him. Minutes later he returned with the cab just as Watson had finally made it to the end of the alley. Only when he stepped into the light of the gas lamp was Holmes able to fully take in the man's disheveled and filthy appearance. But that was not what caught his attention so much as the warning look those green eyes threw at him when he moved toward Watson in an attempt to assist once more. For a moment it almost seemed as if the doctor's pride was going to override his good sense as he considered rejecting the offer of the cab.

Knowing as well as Holmes that he would never make it on foot in his condition, Watson finally relented. He again waved off his flatmate's offer of assistance as he forced himself up and into the cab. The driver eyed the two of them skeptically while this silent exchange took place. However, the addition of some extra coins Holmes threw at him on his way into the cab along with the promise of more for hurrying was enough to soothe his concerns.

Holmes eyed Watson's thin, rigid form in the seat beside him as he turned to prevent the stab wound from coming in contact with the back of the seat. Cocked slightly away from him, Holmes was unable to read the man's expression as he sat silently. His face had taken on a deathly pallor and his lips were drawn into a fine line he could only just see from the profile.

"Why?" Holmes blurted out the question that had been causing his mind to stutter and stall.

_Why would you do such a thing? _

_ Why would you come back? _

_ Why do you care? _

_ Why didn't you go fetch a constable?_

_ Why? Why? Why?_

Watson turned his head only slightly, not even bothering to face the detective. He grated through teeth clenched in pain, "I apologize if my meddling has caused you further inconvenience, Mr. Holmes. And to answer your question, I'm not in the habit of abandoning friends."

Though there was no accusation behind those words, Holmes mind once again froze on a single word.

"Friend?"

This time Watson only grunted in reply. Taking in this image and attempting to process the man sitting beside him in the swiftly moving cab, Holmes' mind snapped backward in time to their earliest days of tenancy in their new flat.

~o~o~o~

Holmes surveyed their newly arranged sitting room with no small pride. He and Watson had spent the better part of the day arranging the house to their liking, but the sitting room most of all. Initially, Holmes had disliked the idea of a flatmate at all. For all his encounters with humans on a daily basis, he had yet to meet one he could tolerate for more than a few hours at a time. The idea of having to share a living space with one had been abhorrent to him. But, in the face of his need of better quarters and a place to work, he had been forced to accept the man that now sat contentedly in a chair beside the fire.

This frail-seeming broken wreck of a man could not be much older than himself, he knew. But the weariness that seeped from him in waves gave him an aura of age that Holmes could not quite puzzle out. He knew enough of the man to guess at his background, but little more than that. He knew of the crushing defeat at Maiwand and could guess at the devastation the man had suffered at the hands of the disease that followed. He seemed quiet enough, but with military types one never really knew.

"I will, of course, be needing the use of the sitting room from time to time as a consulting room," Holmes informed him, seating himself in the other chair beside the fire.

Dr. Watson glanced at him briefly, nodding genially. "Of course."

"I hope that will not bother you overmuch. And, of course, when you are in need of the sitting room to entertain your own guests, I simply need enough notice to make other arrangements."

The doctor waved this away with a little half smile as he turned his gaze back toward the fire. "You need not worry about that."

"Is the environment unsuitable to your guests?" Holmes asked, secretly hoping this was the case; anything to deter the man from bringing more people into his personal space.

"Not at all," Dr. Watson assured him, suddenly seeming very far away from here. "I have no friends."

Holmes' guess about the man's mind being somewhere else was proven correct seconds later as the doctor's hand reached unconsciously toward his shoulder. It wasn't the statement itself or even the gesture that tugged at something inside the detective. In a sudden flash of understanding, Holmes realized why it was the man had no friends.

Then Dr. Watson shook himself visibly as if forcing his mind away from the memories. Holmes watched as the doctor flashed his new flatmate an assuring grin behind the mustache before turning his gaze to take in the scene of their sitting room once again. He appeared perfectly content with their surroundings. For the first time, Holmes felt a curiosity about this quiet gentleman that now shared his living space. He wondered at the experiences that had shaped such a person.

Days later he had acquired the reports and information on his new flatmate and the Battle of Maiwand from his elder brother, Mycroft. What he read was enough to spawn nightmares with his vivid imagination. He could not even begin to imagine having lived through such a horror. And yet, the kind-hearted, soft-spoken man he now shared living quarters with here in London had done just that.

The former army surgeon had not abandoned his friends and patients even when faced with the possibility of a horrific death. But they had been left behind, likely in pieces, on the sands of Afghanistan, nonetheless.


	4. Chapter Three

_Nothing's so loud_

_As hearing when we lie_

_The truth is not kind_

_And you've said neither am I..._

_Nothing's so cold_

_As closing the heart when all we need_

_Is to free the soul_

_But we wouldn't be that brave I know..._

_And it won't matter now_

_Whatever happens will be_

_Though the air speaks of all we'll never be_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: All I Want**_

* * *

**Chapter Three**

_Friend._

Holmes had not even begun to process the implications of that word as it hung there in his mind. He was still trying to comprehend this when he was forced back to their present circumstances with frightening swiftness. These thoughts were swept aside in his concern as Watson suddenly went limp and sagged sideways against him in the cab. Recalling some of his limited medical knowledge he reached over to check Watson's pulse. It was steady, but seemed far too rapid as it fluttered under his fingers. The man was utterly still. Though a fine sheen of sweat had broken out making his skin clammy, he was cold as ice. Holmes frowned darkly willing the cab to hurry. He knew this couldn't be well for his...

"Friend," Holmes whispered with something akin to wonder.

Though it seemed like hours, it could not have been much more than a few minutes before the cab came to a halt outside Dr. Cumming's door. Holmes frantically extracted himself from the cab laying Watson down gently on the seat. Reigning in his rising emotional tide, he took in the still-lit windows of the living quarters on the second floor and began to ring the bell. He bounced from foot to foot impatiently waiting for someone to answer. Seconds later he began to pound on the door. Hearing groaning from inside the cab as Watson began to wake, he left his position in front of the door to return to the cab just as the door was opening behind him. Watson was only semi-conscious and muttering something in a language Holmes could not identify. His muttering turned to cries of pain moments later as he shifted restlessly on the seat. Attempting to calm his friend, he failed to notice the doctor's presence beside him until the man spoke.

"What's going on here?" the middle-aged man asked sternly.

"He was injured in a fight," Holmes explained, paying less than half attention to the man. "He was—"

"Dr. Watson?"

Having recognized his patient, Dr. Cummings swiftly took over the scene. He shoved Holmes aside and carefully lifted Watson into an almost sitting position. This movement had obviously been enough to send the poor man back into unconsciousness. Holmes followed the man's directions as they maneuvered him out of the cab and into the doctor's consulting room. Carefully Holmes helped place him on the examination sofa before the doctor banished him into the sitting room beyond.

Helpless to do anything for his friend, his errand to Scotland Yard forgotten, Holmes collapsed into one of the chairs in the sitting room. Alone with his thoughts, he curled into the chair staring at the door as if he could see beyond. Watson had said the stab wound was not serious. But he had collapsed in the cab. He couldn't help wondering how many other injuries the man had sustained in the encounter. Had he been hiding other, more serious wounds?

His mind fairly flew through scenarios complete with vivid and gory images. Holmes had seen the knife come out just as he had slipped in the mud of the alley. He had known the moment he lost his balance that he was likely to suffer some damage for the encounter. He could so clearly recall tensing as he expected the knife to enter his back.

But then Watson had been there.

Watson had tackled the man. He must have been stabbed when...

The guilt that flooded his mind then was enough to have him burying his face in his knees. With painful clarity he remembered his earlier words before they had parted ways. He had accused the man of being a useless cripple. And that same man—_friend—_had not hesitated to save his life.

Dark thoughts of what he deserved chased through his mind for what seemed like hours. Holmes was surprised to realize it was only a little after eight o'clock, less than thirty minutes since they'd arrived, when Dr. Cummings at last opened the door to his consulting room. Holmes leapt to his feet as the doctor closed the door quietly behind him.

"You must be Mr. Holmes," Dr. Cumming said, eyeing him closely. "I am Dr. Cummings, though I'm sure you knew that already. He speaks quite highly of you."

Holmes was surprised to hear this, but it was quickly pushed aside by his impatience. "How badly is he hurt?"

Dr. Cummings sighed, apparently satisfied with his visual inspection of his potential second patient. "He would not allow me to give him anything for the pain until I made certain you were not hurt. He explained the 'little scuffle' you two had been in earlier and insisted that I check on you."

Holmes could not quite comprehend this level of selflessness. Injured and in pain, Watson's first concern was still for his friend. Finally recalling himself, Holmes waved off the doctor's concerns. "I'm fine."

"But you have nowhere to stay tonight that he would be able to rest," the doctor stated bluntly.

Feeling his cheeks color slightly at this, Holmes nodded.

Dr. Cummings nodded to himself before once more addressing Holmes. "You have to understand, his health is yet fragile. Though I have not had much opportunity to speak with him, I am aware of his experiences. He has only recently begun any real recovery. This may or may not prove a setback for him. He is quite obviously exhausted himself. Though he didn't lose much blood, it was enough to weaken him considerably. The rest of the injuries are superficial, but painful. He will be days, if not weeks, in recovering from this alone; _if_ there are no further complications. Since there is nowhere else for him to stay, I would recommend a hospital. For tonight, I will allow both of you to remain here until my practice opens in the morning."

Taking all of this in, Holmes felt his shoulders slump. How much of his friend's present condition was his fault? Why had he not seen these things for himself? "Thank you, Doctor."

"I will finish tending his wounds, but then I suggest you both get some rest. You are welcome to make yourself comfortable here in the sitting room."

"Thank you, Doctor," Holmes repeated numbly as Dr. Cummings returned to the consulting room and his patient.

Holmes resumed his previous position in the chair directly facing the door. His thoughts and feeling meshed and mixed in a way he had not allowed himself in many years. Numb with something akin to shock, he allowed his mind to take him where it willed. And what he found when measured against the man he now called friend, he found himself sorely lacking.

~o~o~o~

Some time later Dr. Cummings once again exited the consulting room to find Holmes exactly as he had been the last time. Holmes took in the concerned frown, as he rose to his feet once more.

"I have him resting now," Dr. Cummings began to explain, forestalling any questions. "He should sleep through the night. He knows the signs of infection and will alert me if there are any complications in the morning. I will retire for the night. You should get some rest also."

Holmes nodded, but kept his peace. He knew he couldn't sleep this night even were he allowed back into the comforts of his own room. Moments after the doctor had ascended the stairs to his living quarters, Holmes found himself staring at the consulting room door.

For several minutes he paced the sitting room. Part of him wanted to see Watson to know for himself that the man would be alright. Part of him wanted to flee these premises altogether. The rational part of him knew it was sheer stupidity that he allow himself this level of concern for another person. These kinds of emotional entanglements led to irrational behavior and clouded thinking. Proof of that was his current state of confusion.

The other part of him he had denied for so long screamed out from the darkness of his lost childhood that this was right. For all his feelings of unworthiness, some little voice buried deep in his soul said he needed a friend.

He stopped his pacing in mid-stride and froze as another voice caught his attention. From beyond the door he could hear the first mutterings. Watson had fallen asleep several times in the sitting room either on the sofa or in his fireside chair in the last year since they'd moved in together. It always started like this. He would mutter or plead or curse in languages Holmes had never heard clearly before meeting Watson. They would quickly escalate. If not woken, in those deeper sleeps he would wake screaming. Though Holmes could not understand half of what was said, it did not take a great leap of deduction to figure out they were likely memories more than nightmares.

Before Holmes had a chance to realize what he was doing, he found himself stepping through the door into the consulting room. Watson had already thrown off the sheet and blanket the doctor had used to cover him. He was shifting restlessly, obviously still in some pain. Looking at the bare torso of his flatmate, Holmes didn't have to wonder why. He knew Watson was drugged, and very unlikely to wake himself this time. He was virtually trapped inside the hell he was reliving within his mind.

Not sure if he should fetch Dr. Cummings, Holmes stepped forward cautiously as Watson moaned and shifted again. Still, he could not make out what it was Watson was saying. But, by that point, it was lost on him anyway. His eyes had caught sight of his friend's exposed body from waist to shoulders and he shuddered. The man was covered in a massive array of bruises ranging from green to black. A smaller white patch of fresh bandaging covered the wound the doctor had stitched earlier. But it was the twisted mass of scar tissue on Watson's left shoulder that made him shudder. He could not even begin to imagine how painful the actual injury must have been. The lumpy, white remains he could now see for himself were horrible enough to comprehend.

For nearly two minutes Holmes stood transfixed by these sights. As Watson's voice escalated into a slurred shout, Holmes knew he had to do something before he woke Dr. Cummings. Coming around the sofa, he took Watson's flailing arm by the wrist as the unconscious man tried to ward him off. Instantly Watson began to struggle to pull away. Knowing he would likely only injure himself further, Holmes tried to reassure him.

Apparently it was enough. Holmes could not even recall what he'd said, but it seemed Watson recognized his voice. He calmed quickly, then, going limp once more as the drugs continued to keep him asleep. Still murmuring soothingly, Holmes placed Watson's arm across his chest and carefully covered him again making sure the bandage was not disturbed. Holmes checked for fever as the doctor shivered slightly burrowing deeper beneath the blankets. Finding none, Holmes began to wonder what to do next.

Pulling the doctor's chair around and over to the sofa, Holmes sat and waited. Still exploring his thoughts and uncertain feelings, he watched as Watson slept more peacefully for a short while. When the nightmares began again and Watson's hand formed a white-knuckled fist in the blankets, Holmes found himself reaching out again to take him by the wrist and gently soothe him until he would relax into dreamless sleep once more. These little episodes repeated several times throughout the night as Holmes kept his vigil. The idea of leaving Watson to his nightmares never even occurred to him.

When the sun began to filter through the curtains of the consulting room, Holmes knew there was one more thing he could do for his friend. Even as Watson showed signs of lighter sleep indicating the drugs were wearing off, Holmes quietly let himself out of the doctor's house.

~o~o~o~

Holmes shuffled from foot to foot nervously. Trying to force some semblance of control over his thoughts, he ran a hand through his wild hair. He knew he looked a mess. After the melee in the alley the night before and the failed interview with Mr. Blessington before that, he probably looked the the homeless wretch he felt at this point. Summoning his dignity for the confrontation he expected, he quickly rang the bell. Despite the early hour, he knew Mrs. Hudson would already be stirring. As expected, she answered the door only moments later.

"Mrs. Hudson, may I please come in? I need to speak with you," he cut off whatever she was about to say, knowing it would not be pleasant.

Surprised by his sense of urgency, she quickly backed into the foyer opening the door wide. Closing the door behind himself, Holmes dug into his pockets already beginning his explanation before she had a chance to reject him out of hand. "Watson is injured. He is needing a safe place to stay for a while until he can recover." He pushed a bundle of money and his keys into her hand, "Here is my share of three months of the rent and my keys. I will leave immediately. But I ask that you let him stay. He's never given you any problems and—"

"Mr. Holmes," she finally broke in, "will you please calm down?"

Holmes shut his mouth with a click of his teeth. For the first time he took in his former landlady's appearance. The dark rings under her eyes spoke of a long and sleepless night. Obviously her patience had been worn out. She waited to be certain he would not resume before nodding her head. Then something in those dark eyes changed as she scrutinized him.

"You would do that?" she asked, consideringly.

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.

Shaking her head, Mrs. Hudson sighed tiredly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. I cannot accept that."

She handed him back the money and keys, as his shoulders slumped visibly in disappointment. "Mrs. Hudson—"

"It was _not _my intention to evict you," she continued patiently. "I was scared and angry, and my temper got the better of me. If you will accept my apologies, Mr. Holmes, I would welcome both of you back. How badly is he hurt?"

Holmes cocked his head at her frowning curiously. "He was stabbed. Dr. Cummings says he should recover in time. But it's more than that. He...he's needing a safe place still to recover from...before."

Mrs. Hudson's dark eyes narrowed. "We will be having a talk about these clients of yours, Mr. Holmes. For now, what will you be needing?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," genuine gratitude in his voice. "For now, some clothes for Watson."

"I shall see to those. You could do with some yourself."

Taking a hint, Holmes dashed up the stairs two at a time. Quickly he cleaned himself up and tossed his room for some clean clothing of his own, hearing his landlady making her way more slowly up the second flight of stairs to Watson's room. Finishing these tasks in record time, he passed through the sitting room to grab his discarded coat from the night before. Pausing for a moment, he took in the sight of the somewhat re-ordered sitting room and dual set of fireside chairs. Briefly, an image of a lone chair beside that fireplace flitted through his mind. The sheer lack of symmetry made his mind reject the image. That second chair, and its usual occupant belonged there as much as he himself did.

Closing the sitting room door behind himself, Holmes felt for the first time that this place was more than a temporary stop on his way to something larger and greater. That something far more important resided within these rooms rang through his mind as he descended the stairs to his waiting landlady. In his own mind he called it by its proper name.

_Home. _


	5. Chapter Four

_Again (oh again)_

_It seems we meet (meet and mend)_

_In the spaces (spaces safe)_

_In between (between intent)_

_We always say (say too much)_

_Won't be long (long been gone)_

_Oh, but something's always wrong_

_Another game of putting things aside_

_As if we'll come back to them sometime_

_A brace of hope, a pride of innocence_

_And you would say something has gone wrong_

_Oh again (again we fail)_

_Seems we meet (make amends)_

_In the spaces (wend our way)_

_In between (between each end)_

_We always say (looking back)_

_Won't be long (moving on)_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Something's Always Wrong**_

* * *

**Chapter Four **

The sun was well up and Holmes knew Dr. Cummings would be stirring by now himself. He clutched the little bag of Watson's belongings in his hand as he shuffled impatiently. The maid that answered the door showed him into the sitting room where he met Dr. Cummings just exiting his consulting room.

"I brought some clothes," Holmes offered, feeling the tension inside himself rising.

"He's awake. I was about to change his bandages, if you'll give me a moment."

Holmes waited while the doctor disappeared once more into the consulting room. Though it was only a matter of minutes, he felt like every second took forever. He could not remember the last time his stomach clenched in such a way. He could not imagine what kind of response he would receive, though he knew what he deserved. Finally, Dr. Cummings exited the consulting room.

"I am expecting some patients early this morning. Dr. Watson should be out shortly," the doctor informed him before retreating back up the stairs.

Holmes waited until he felt it was more likely he would turn and flee. Forcing himself to calm, he knocked on the door.

"Come."

Holmes quickly turned the knob before he changed his mind to obey the rational voice screaming protests in his mind. Watson was half-turned reaching for his shirt as Holmes closed the door behind himself. Seeing who it was that had entered, Watson quickly turned toward the mirror and tugged on his shirt to cover the mass of bruises and scars. While his shaking hands struggled with the buttons, he eyed Holmes' reflection in the mirror. Holmes tried not to stare uncomfortably as he forced his own hands to stillness.

"Thank you for the clothes," Watson said stiffly. "I take it you spoke with Mrs. Hudson this morning?"

Holmes nodded, his mind already elsewhere. "I wanted to apologize for what I said last night."

"No."  
He had expected as much. Slumping his shoulders, he sank down onto the sofa as he nodded in dejection.

Now tucking in his shirt, Watson continued, "I will not allow you to apologize for telling the truth, Mr. Holmes. Every word you spoke was true."

"That's not the point," Holmes protested, before Watson could speak further. "True or not, I only said them to hurt you. I was angry and I lashed out unfairly. It was cruel and..."

Watson finished tugging on his suit jacket, still not turning to face Holmes. "As you wish," he said stiffly. "If it will make you feel better, then I forgive you."

Running a hand through his hair in frustration, Holmes pushed himself off the sofa and began pacing the little consulting room. "I've never had a friend before. I must admit to my lack of knowledge in the proper social behavior in this situation. I had thought an apology would be appropriate."

After inspecting himself one last time in the mirror, Watson finally turned to take in Holmes' flushed cheeks. Seeing the level of his friend's discomfort, he realized that Holmes was telling the truth. He really didn't know. He wondered, not for the first time, at the events of his friend's childhood that could shape such a man. And, yet, to not know something so simple...

Stifling a chuckle as his mustache twitched in the beginnings of a grin, Watson shook his head in bemusement as he took up his cane. "You are not wrong," he said, stiffly limping toward the door. "But I don't believe an apology is warranted under the circumstances. You were correct and spoke the truth. Perhaps not in a very polite way, but that has never stopped you before."

"It was still wrong," Holmes argued, not willing to let the doctor walk away.

"It does not matter now," Watson tossed back impatiently. "My deficencies—"

"Are temporary," Holmes said bluntly.

Watson's shoulders slumped for a moment. Turning away from the door, he drew himself up and summoned his fragile dignity to face Holmes directly. "As we will no longer be staying at Baker Street—"

"Mrs. Hudson said we could stay," Holmes suddenly remembered. "I tried to convince her you should stay and I would go—"

_"What?"_

"—but she said she was not intending to evict us."

"I see."

For a moment Watson seemed to consider this. Then, as if making a decision, he nodded to himself. "Good. Then I will contact Mrs. Hudson when I am ready to see to my belongings."

Holmes stared in shock. "She said we could stay."

"I understand that," Watson said, reaching for the door once more. "However, you've made your opinion of our current living situation clear. I would not further inflict my presence on—"

"But I _don't _want you to leave!"

Watson stopped with his hand on the doorknob. Before he had a chance to respond to this, there was a quick knock on the door. Opening the door, he stepped out with Holmes close behind. Thanking Dr. Cummings, Watson promised to be in touch before taking his leave. As they joined the rest of the swiftly moving morning foot traffic only a few blocks from Baker Street, Holmes found himself walking silently beside what he hoped was still his flatmate, at least. Watson seemed deep in thought, but made no move in any direction other than toward their rooms. Shortly before reaching their door, Watson stopped. With an air of determination, his green eyes glinted with something Holmes could not identify.

"Why would you want a meddling, half-crippled man for a flatmate?" Watson asked bluntly.

"Why would you want me for a friend?" Holmes shot back the first thing that came to his still swirling mind.

Apparently this had not been what the doctor was expecting, as he cocked his head curiously at Holmes. Holmes could see the mingled consideration and confusion in Watson's eyes. But his eye for detail soon distracted him. The doctor's face still held a deathly pallor and the dark rings under his eyes spoke of exhaustion. The man was pushing himself and his trembling limbs just to stand there. Not liking the idea of having to carry the doctor to Mrs. Hudson, he quickly put an end to the conversation. These things could wait. Taking Watson by the arm and ignoring his protests, he steered them back toward the door. He supported Watson's unoccupied arm subtly with his gentle grip, hoping his legs would hold him up a few more minutes.

Mrs. Hudson must have seen them through one of the lower windows, as he had not even enough time to retrieve his keys from his pocket before the door flew open. Mrs. Hudson ushered them both inside apologizing profusely. Holmes caught a darkly irritated glare from his flatmate as most of the focus seemed to be on the injured man in this case. The two of them murmured some of their own apologies in between her stream of constant fussing as she shooed them up to the sitting room with a promise of breakfast to follow. Holmes hung back long enough to ensure Watson had made it to the door of the sitting room. Before Watson had a chance to contemplate another flight of stairs up to his bedroom, Holmes threw open the sitting room door and tugged gently on his arm. Sagging with exhaustion and trembling from head to foot, Watson queried Holmes silently once with a raised eyebrow.

"You'll be more comfortable on the settee, I believe," Holmes answered as Watson seated himself at the now uprighted breakfast table.

Watson waved this off knowing Mrs. Hudson would soon be returning with the breakfast tray. He did not think he could maneuver back across the room anymore than he could up the stairs to his own bedroom at this point in time.

Holmes took in the sight of the desk chair that had been so rudely thrown through the still-broken windows. Despite some dents and chips, it seemed otherwise unharmed. He placed it back at his desk as he turned his attention to the rest of the room. After a moment's pause, he shoved the fire-side chairs out of the way and quickly tugged the settee closer to the fire. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Watson casually leaning on the table as if pretending he was not using it for support. The man seemed more amused than offended by his flatmate's current activities.

Finally, Holmes managed to position a chair and the settee in such a way he was satisfied with the results. His survey of this new layout was interrupted by the arrival of their landlady bearing a heavily weighted tray of breakfast and coffee. Holmes swiftly moved to assist her when he caught sight of Watson attempting to struggle up out of his chair to do the same. Throwing the doctor a warning glare that settled him back into his place, Holmes relieved their landlady of her tray and began to set out the items on the table. He flatly ignored the twin stares of curiosity at this sudden change in behavior.

With a gentle pat on the doctor's arm, Mrs. Hudson ended her fussing and exited the sitting room. Having noted the new arrangements, she smiled happily at Holmes as she closed the door. For a while, the silence stretched out uncomfortably as the two were left alone. Watson appeared almost too tired to be sitting upright, and did little more than push his food around the plate. Holmes made a valiant effort to appear as if he were enjoying his own breakfast while, in reality, mirroring Watson desultory motions.

Disgusted with himself and his thoughts, or so Holmes could surmise from the various expressions flitting across his flatmate's features, Watson finally pushed away his food and took up his cup of coffee. His eyes flitted briefly, longingly, toward the settee. The subtle hand movement toward his leg, however, was not missed by Holmes. Holmes found himself reigning in his impatience as the myriad questions screamed around his active mind. But these subtle indicators told him more of the doctor's physical condition and frame of mind more than any words he knew Watson was likely to ever speak. Frustrated with his own ineptitude in such social graces, he frowned darkly as he returned his attention to his coffee. Not sure what to do that would not further insult the man's already wounded and sensitive pride, he sulked quietly with his own thoughts.

"You still have not answered my question," Watson finally broke into the thick silence.

Holmes glanced up to find his flatmate's attention being held firmly by the fire across the room. Forcing himself not to fidget with discomfort at so pointed a question, Holmes wracked his brain for an answer. As the silence continued to stretch out, Watson turned to eye him with something akin to amusement. Holmes felt his face flush as countless answers flitted through his mind, all of which he knew would come off condescending at best, or irrational at worst.

"I don't know," Holmes snapped, finally, tired of the scrutiny.

Surprisingly, Watson only grinned as he met Holmes' helpless gray eyes. "That's because you're trying to rationalize."

"Of course I am."

Watson's grin transformed into a full smile. "I believe the question you asked me earlier likely has the same answer as mine to you."

Holmes blinked in confusion. In his mind, they were completely different questions. Watson let Holmes turn this over in his mind for a minute while he poured himself another cup of coffee. Feeling a twinge in his back from the stab wound, Watson tensed for a moment before relaxing once more. Making up his mind, he took his cup and carefully headed over to the settee Holmes had kindly arranged for him. Holmes did the same, grabbing his pipe and settling into his chair.

As Holmes seemed occupied with his pipe, Watson decided to take the initiative. "Friendship is not something rationalized easily. Looking at ours from say, Mrs. Hudson's perspective. On the surface you have little consideration for others, you believe most people are beneath your notice—unless criminally inclined, of course—are absorbed completely in your cases to the exclusion of all else, and can be arrogant at the best of times. I am a physically damaged man of average intelligence, that spends more time meddling in my flatmate's affairs than tending to my own, as you have pointed out. Is there more you wish to add?"

Holmes had all but forgotten his pipe and was now staring wide-eyed. The gleam in those green eyes told Holmes how much the doctor was amused by the rather shocking bluntness with which these things were stated. Not to be outdone, he gathered his thoughts. He could easily give as good as he got.

"You shuffle around your room at all hours of the night making easily enough racket to disturb those below. You are stubborn and refuse to listen to reason even when it is blatantly pointed out to you."

Holmes was surprised to realize he was stating this with no animosity as he matched Watson's amused grin.

"Your chemical experiments are odious, and you can drive even a deaf person out of the room with your violin when you're in a mood."

"You spend more time scribbling in those journals and reading than doing something more useful with your time."

Watson paused as he thought for a moment. "I believe that is enough to begin. We are two very different people that—for financial reasons—began living together just over a year ago. Our original agreement of six months has long come and gone, and yet neither of us has made any attempts at changing this situation. Based on my own observations, you were no longer needing my financial assistance some months ago. Still, you did not ask me to leave. My situation remains the same. Though, I will admit, not for much longer. Shortly I will have to reach a decision as to what I will be doing for a living, as I am no longer qualified to be a surgeon and will likely never serve in any military capacity again.

"And, looking at it from an outsider's perspective, the differences are all the more glaring. So, the question of why I would want you for a friend is really not all that different from why you would want to keep me around. Despite our differences, I think you are a good man, and are more than what you wish the rest of the world to believe. It's not rational, but more a sense of rightness. At the time we met, I had no intention of befriending the arrogant, eccentric man to which I was introduced. It is something that happened over the last year and I would not change that. However, friendship requires reciprocation. As you do not feel the same, I would not wish my presence to further inconvenience you."

Holmes frowned, his brows furrowing deeply as he considered these things. For several moments he stared quietly into the fire. Part of his mind still felt the need to rationalize these things. To him, it could not be _that _simple. There had to be something more; some clue he was missing. He was certain that Watson's belief that he did not reciprocate had to be a failure caused by his ignorance. However, some of Watson's statements made sense on a level that required no thought at all. Turning his attention back to the man struggling to stay awake on the settee nearby, Holmes made an attempt to state what he was thinking and feeling.

"I still fail to understand much. But I _do _agree in that it was an unexpected development. I had not planned on taking on a partner or befriending the flatmate I was forced to take. I've stated before that such relationships and emotional involvements are irrational. In my rational way of approaching everything in life, they can, in fact, be detrimental."

Holmes paused as he attempted to make some sort of sense out of his jumbled thoughts. He watched with some disappointment as Watson nodded to these things accepting them for what they were even without further explanation. The disappointment was clear on the doctor's face, however, as he tiredly set aside his cup. He turned himself slightly as if preparing to stand.

"But I also agree with the sense that it is right, somehow," Holmes cut in, before Watson had a chance to retreat to his own room. "The differences are not entirely superficial, as we well know. Perhaps it is the differences that make us more than just flatmates."

Curiosity painted Watson's face as he turned to listen eagerly.

"Friendship in a human sense I cannot truly comprehend or rationalize. However, through my knowledge of science, perhaps I can put it into perspective. It is well known in chemistry and other areas that opposites are what make a single, functioning unit that individual components cannot. I believe our relationship as friends is much the same.

"You said I am a good man, though I would not credit myself as such. I made a decision, and I stand by that; nothing more, and nothing less. I think you are an honest and trustworthy man, and greatly underestimate yourself and your abilities. I chose to show you what I would not share with the rest of the world _because of_ that honesty and sense of trust. It demanded reciprocation, as does your friendship. Anything less would be...wrong."

Holmes huffed in frustration re-lighting his pipe as he could not seem to find the words to explain what he was thinking. This entire conversation had taken a turn toward the uncomfortable for him. Watson's face had smoothed into something approaching wonder now, as he apparently understood what Holmes was trying to say. He could not help the grin as he realized Holmes had quite easily managed to form a rational explanation and argument in favor of something he was beginning to think of as impossible to sort out on such a level.

_Only you, Holmes, _Watson thought warmly.

"In that case, I suppose I could tolerate sharing a living space with you for a while longer," Watson teased lightly as he stifled a yawn.

The relief that Holmes felt at his friend's display of humor was visible. "Excellent. Then that means I can anticipate more of your 'meddling'?"

Surprisingly, Watson frowned as he turned his attention back to the coffee cup in his hands. "Holmes—"

"I can't expect my partner to sit around doing nothing all day when there are case notes to be written, afterall," Holmes continued brightly, though watching Watson's reactions closely. "I imagine one day I will have to actually hire someone to fill that position when you've resumed practice in a medical capacity. I certainly possess no talent in that area, as you've seen for yourself."

Watson sighed, weariness in every inch of his frame. "You know."

Holmes humphed around the stem of his pipe. "I fail to see how that impacts your usefulness as a general practitioner in the medical fields. Or is it simply that you feel yourself above such menial practice?"

Watson's eyes grew wide at the idea. "Of course not."

"Perhaps it was your budding career in the military, then?"

Watson frowned darkly as something flitted across his mind he obviously did not wish to share. "No."

"Perhaps you lack the bedside manner to deal with patients that are still conscious? Given your treatment of my last encounter with a minor head wound, I would consider my opinion on the subject rather biased."

Watson flashed a grin for a moment remembering for himself his first encounter with Holmes as a most unwilling patient. But his features immediately fell into more serious contemplation. "You are correct, of course. It does not interfere with my seeking other opportunities. I am impatient, and I was seeking confirmation for myself that I am not as crippled as I feel."

"Enough of that," Holmes cut him off. "I will spend the rest of my life regretting the use of that word. You have proven repeatedly that you are anything _but _crippled. Wounds that would have killed or left another man helpless, you ignore. You push yourself to recover, making only minor concessions to the fact that you are in pain. I may not be a medical man, but I do know pain when I see it. And still you force yourself to continue that recovery where lesser man would have given up by now. I will not accept that you are crippled, nor will I allow_ you _do to so."

"Nonetheless, I am limited in some things," Watson persisted, scowling.

"I said I do not know much about such social interactions as friendship, Watson. Is usefulness a requirement?"

"No, but—"

"Then that is one thing you need not concern yourself with in our partnership. You are a doctor, or will be again. You have to decide for yourself what it is you wish to do within those limitations. But first, you need time to finish the healing process. I am given to understand that healing takes place as much in the mind as it does the body. Do not cripple _yourself."_

The silence stretched on for several seconds as Watson's scowl transformed into something more contemplative. Still refusing to meet Holmes' gaze, the doctor nodded slowly.

"Thank you."

This simple statement seemed to contain so much more coming from the doctor that Holmes felt his face flush as he realized exactly what it was he had done. Irrational as it seemed, he really _did _feel something for this quiet, complex flatmate he called friend. He genuinely cared for another human being. This was something he could never have predicted. Vaguely he wondered what his brother would think of this turn of events.

Minutes later, he retrieved a blanket from his own bed to cover the doctor as he had fallen asleep where he was sitting. Even just days ago he could not have comprehended performing such a considerate gesture. Looking down at Watson's sleeping form, seeming more peaceful than he could ever remember, he could not help wondering many things. The changes within himself were a direct result of his daily encounters with Watson. Whether these changes would prove beneficial or detrimental to the life and career he had chosen...

Settling himself into his chair to watch over his friend's sleep, Holmes made his final decision. However the events of the following days or years would play out, at least he was willing to explore them. For the sake of the man who had dared to call him friend, he would try.

A part of him he had not allowed himself to acknowledge since his earliest childhood settled back down quietly, apparently satisfied.


	6. Epilogue

_So much has changed _

_And so much has happened these years_

_But still find that you_

_Are waiting here_

_We have a bond_

_That nothing can change_

_And still I find_

_A peace of mind_

_Whenever I hear your name_

_**~Toad the Wet Sprocket: Brother**_

* * *

**Epilogue**

Some forty years later, Holmes found himself sitting in his little cottage in Sussex. The fire warmed his aching, old joints as he listened to Watson's soft snoring. Many wonderful and terrible events had been shared by these two dear friends in those decades. As age took him farther and farther away from those events, Holmes could not help his mind wandering back with some nostalgia and not a little wonder.

Even now, he could not fully comprehend what he had done all those years ago to deserve such love and loyalty from another person. In the events following his return to London after Reichenbach Falls he had questioned it many times. He had ceased questioning many years ago now, as the only answer he could come up with was Watson. The man's heart knew no boundaries. His forgiving nature and kind spirit could not be broken.

Taking up a nearby blanket, he covered his friend once more as he had fallen asleep where he sat. Now, such an action was second nature to him. For the sake of the doctor who dared to call him friend, he had tried to be a man worthy of that honor.

Once more, he settled into his chair to guard his friend's rest.

_ Sleep well, my dear friend, Watson._


End file.
